While Ethan scored volleys against Manchester United on pristine academy turf, Tuesday night in Eastfield provided a very different football experience.
It was raining, a cold drizzle that hit the face. The floodlights on the training pitch flickered ominously, creating long, moving shadows across the mud.
"Again!" Coach Shaw shouted, his voice cutting through the wind. "Ryan, stop admiring the pass! Move!"
Ryan, the U16 midfielder trying to fill Ethan's shoes, scrambled to get back into position. He looked scared. Every time he got the ball, he hesitated, searching for a pass that wasn't there, before eventually playing it safely backward to Mason.
Callum, shivering in his training top, watched from the striker's position. He checked his run for the tenth time in five minutes, with no ball coming. The old Callum would have thrown his arms up, yelled at Ryan, and sulked.
The new Callum, wearing the captain's armband even in practice, took a deep breath. He jogged over to Ryan.
"Head up, Ry," Callum said, giving the younger boy a pat on the back. "Don't look for the perfect pass. Just give it to Mason and get in the box. Keep it simple."
"I know," Ryan said, looking miserable. "I just... I'm not him, Cal. I can't see the angles."
"We know you're not him," Mason said, appearing beside them like a rock. "If you were him, you'd be in Birmingham eating pasta with a fork. Just win the tackle. We'll handle the rest."
It was harsh, but it was fair. It was the new reality.
Saturday arrived with a grey, heavy sky. They were away to Greenford.
Greenford sat 4th in the table. They were a solid, unremarkable team who had watched the video of the Riverton 0-0 draw and learned, if you stop Crestwood from running, you stop them from scoring.
The game was a test of endurance. Greenford packed the defense, putting ten men behind the ball on a pitch that was narrow and bumpy.
For 70 minutes, Crestwood battered against the wall. Mason pushed forward again and again, breaking through midfield, only to run into a dense wall of legs near the box. Callum made runs into the channels, chasing long balls that rolled out of play.
It was ugly. It was frustrating. It was 0-0.
"This is torture," Callum muttered to Mason as they prepared for a throw-in deep in Greenford's half. "I haven't had a clear shot on goal in two weeks." "Doesn't matter," Mason replied, wiping sweat and mud from his eyes. "We just need one. Just one."
In the 82nd minute, they got their chance. Not through a smooth passing move, but through sheer will.
Mason won a header in the center circle, a loud, violent hit that sent the ball looping high toward the Greenford box. It was a hopeful ball, the kind tactics books dislike.
The Greenford center-back stepped out to clear it. He was big, confident, and fresh.
Callum was none of those things. He was tired, frustrated, and smaller. But he wanted it more.
As the ball fell, Callum didn't try to control it. He launched himself into the air, challenging the defender not for the ball, but for the space. He collided with the center-back mid-air, a clash of ribs and elbows.
The defender, startled by the aggression, mistimed his header. The ball skimmed off the top of his head and bounced backward into the penalty area.
It was a scramble. A loose ball in the box.
Mason was already running. He had started his sprint the moment he headed the ball in the center circle, betting on chaos. He burst through the defensive line, lungs burning.
The Greenford keeper rushed out. Mason arrived at the same time. He didn't shoot; he threw himself into a slide tackle, connecting with the ball just before the keeper's hands.
The ball bobbled, hit the keeper's chest, spun up, hit Mason's shin, and rolled agonizingly slowly across the line.
GOAL.
1-0 Crestwood.
It was the ugliest goal in the history of the league. It was a goal born from a headache and a bruised shin.
But the celebration was wild. Mason didn't run away; he just lay on his back in the mud, shouting at the sky. Callum jumped on top of him, followed by Ryan, then the rest of the team.
They held on for the final eight minutes, defending their box with desperate blocks and clearances that flew into the car park.
When the final whistle blew, there was no energy left for cheering. They just slumped.
In the changing room, Coach Shaw looked at his battered team. Mud covered every part of their kit. Mason was icing a new bruise on his shin. Callum had a split lip.
"They say you can't win titles playing pretty football in this league," Shaw said quietly. "Today, you showed you can win playing ugly. That's three points. That's top of the league. Get showered."
On Callum opened one eye. "Do you think he misses this? The mud? The blood? The bus smelling like wet socks?"
Mason looked around the bus at their sleeping, tired teammates. "No," he said honestly. "I don't think he misses this part."
He paused.
"But I bet he misses us."
Callum smiled, a small, tired grin. "Yeah. I bet he does."
They rode the rest of the way in silence, the trophies of the weekend, a split lip, a bruised shin, and three vital points, safe in their possession. They were holding the fort. But it was heavy.